


Algeria 1849

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Historical, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 05:04:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14253609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: based on this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eOc1mn-4EzE





	Algeria 1849

It was warm and dry. Not a breeze stirred in the sands of the vast desert. It was unbearably still, and the dreadful heat beat down on him without mercy. He opened his eyes and was forced to confront the reality that sat before him. He drew in a shaky breath, who was he? He wondered to himself. What was he doing here? The answer once seemed simple, but somehow wasn't anymore.

His name, Enjorlas, once meant something. It had once had a meaning and a destiny, but somehow he had lost that. His name was empty, and so was he. Somehow in the past few years, he had lost everything. His wealth, his family, his friends, his cause, and in the process, he lost himself. Suddenly, he was nothing.

With nothing left, he had chosen the path of a legionnaire. He wanted to engage and be apart of something. He longed to aid some sort of cause, even if it might not be his own. Most importantly, he had to aid his motherland, in any way possible.

He lifted his head and squinted as he gazed into the horizon. Sometimes he could see the outline of a city far away in the distance, not just any city but his own, melting in the dry deserts of the lands of Africa.

In the past, it was what kept him going through it all. Now it did nothing to reassure him. In fact, it teased him. It always served as a reminder of the city he longed for. The city where, whoever Enjorlas was, or may become, always belonged. It was always beyond his reach.

He was shaken from his thoughts, as he broke into a coughing fit. His breath came in short gasps, as he struggled to breathe and regain his composure. When he regained his balance, with slight difficulty, he continued onward.

The journey was long and stressful. Honestly, he wasn't certain he would make it. He shivered at the thought of death, not because he was afraid to die, but because he knew it would entail never being able to see his homeland again. It was bad enough being shipped to a foreign legion, in a foreign country, with foreigners, but to die here? So far away? The thought was unbearable to him. What was worse, was that he wasn't sure there was anyone left to remember him.

With that in mind, he went forward. The only thing that kept him going on this journey was his sense of duty. The thought of being of use to his motherland. All other ambitions were hollow. Though he did not know quite who he was he still knew one thing, and that thing was his sense of purpose. No matter what, France, Patria. Was his love above all else.

He coughed again, as the sun beat down on him. He felt as though his head was being pounded by a mallet. It had been only a week since he had come down with this cursed illness and it had only gotten worse. He had been constantly coughing, had aching joints, headaches, and much worse. He had seen it all before. He had seen many people die from this mysterious disease, time and time again. He had watched fellow soldiers, his brothers in arms, waste away and die. He knew he would probably suffer the same fate.

In preparation, he had written a letter. To who, he did not know, because he did not have a person left to write to. He wrote his thoughts, his wishes and most of all he bore the news that he would likely, not be returning anytime soon... and possibly never. He had placed this letter in his pocket with the intent to mail it somehow. At first he thought he would do it when the journey was over. Then, he remembered. His fate hung over him like a terrible shadow, but he still kept the letter folded in his right breast pocket.

Through this, always hanging on the horizon, Paris. Melting in the distance throughout it all. Bearing through his sorrows and haunting him, this mirage was both a savior and a curse.

He probably would never be back again.

Enjorlas, whoever he was, was stricken with this thought to his very core. With nothing but a sense of duty, he continued on. With the precious letter still in his pocket, and nothing more.

'God...' he thought, as he glanced into the arid desert.

He wondered once more, halfheartedly, how much longer it would be until he would reach his destination. That destination, of course. Not being where he was going, and not even France.

It was the great beyond, it was heaven.

Soon he would join his friends, and his family. This was a thing that should have comforted him, in these fleeting moments, but did the opposite. He did not want to die quite yet. Not because he cared for himself, but because he had so many other things he needed to do. Things he needed to do for France. Things he would not be able to do if he were to join his comrades.

But, God and his mercy could not reach him there.

With a heavy heart, he carried himself, with each passing moment, to the journey's end. No matter how bitter that ending may be. He continued with a stone expression, and a firmness in his resolve to bear this all, for his one and only comfort, France.

As his fate would have it, he did not make it through the night. He died with the letter still inside his pocket untouched. The letter was gone along with him, and the dream was gone with the letter. His body was found, but it was never returned to his beloved homeland. In death, he joined his comrades, but all too soon.


End file.
